Category Archives: Romantic Erotica

It’s late…and you come by my apartment sweaty and lacking in breathing and your shirt is wet and you’re hot.

I look away, I want to seem centered.

You say…’’sorry I’m late, I had to run to get there because it started raining…”,and you talk for awhile, of what you have seen in the street and stuff and I’m setting us a drink and smiling because I know and I just can’t seem to get off of my mind what we’ll do together later on tonight.

He usually gets home by the time I am in bed. Trying to fall asleep without him, before he gets home is hard to do. Yet, I think it gets him hard knowing there is a naked, sleeping, innocent woman laying in his bed awaiting for him to play with. This doesn’t “make me feel less of a woman or fearful”, it empowers me. Makes me feel sexy and gives me positivity. Pleasing my man is my obligation. Also I left some rope at the bottom of the bed for him to use on me.

I stared at myself in the mirror after putting on my favorite red dress. It was a beautiful, sparkly red chiffon dress with two straps that left very little to the imagination. It was low cut in the front and back, and tight in all the right places. I reapplied my favorite Mac lipstick in a color that matched my dress perfectly, and left my hotel room.

Every Fall it’s the same trip, a quick shot up to the mountains to look at the beautiful colors on the hillsides. It was mid-October, which was a lot earlier than we normally traveled up there, but this year we were determined to travel the Blue Ridge Parkway farther than we ever had before. And this year I was determined to catch my sunrise and sunset. We trekked up the mountains in our rented Escalade. We had a bed made up in the back with snacks, a cooler, and firewood. The perfect vehicle for a couple road trippers such as ourselves. Leaves fell around us and the mountains were dotted with colors like a pointillism painting. Yellows, golds, reds, oranges, even some deep purples and Browns blended throughout the trees as we drove down winding roads, clashing with the bright blue of the sky dotted with puffs of small clouds.

He’d had connections, I supposed. Perhaps a cousin who worked as a curator or a friend from college who worked as an event organizer – some inside connection. We’d taken a black town car down fifth avenue and arrived at The Met around nine at night, almost four hours after the museum had officially closed.